


Significance

by grelleswife



Series: Summer 2019 Kuroshitsuji Reaperzine [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, Roses, Summer Romance, Trans Female Character, bad puns about statistics are made, female pronouns for Grelle, in which our little nerd finally gets some love, lady and the geek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 11:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20330065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grelleswife/pseuds/grelleswife
Summary: Seeking a respite from the sweltering summer heat, Othello cools his feet in a fountain and can't help but entertain a few wistful thoughts concerning Grelle Sutcliff. What will happen when the lady herself suddenly appears?





	Significance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Summer 2019 Reaperzine
> 
> This portrayal of the relationship was inspired heavily by PrincexRaven's magnificent oneshot "Lady and The Geek" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16270919), which I highly recommend!
> 
> Given Othello's status as a Forensics nerd, I made an exceptionally bad pun with the title. In common parlance, "significance" denotes something of importance. In science, however, this term usually refers to "statistical significance." If your results are significant in the statistical sense, the differences you see between your experimental groups likely have an underlying cause that is distinct from mere chance. 
> 
> If you're so inclined, I suggest giving Jason Mraz's "I'm Yours" a listen while reading this piece. It fits the vibe I tend to associate with Grellthello, and I played it on repeat during the writing process.

Othello sat precariously perched on the edge of the cracked stone fountain, looking even more boyish than usual as he splashed his feet in the dark, refreshing water. However, his canny, sphinxlike eyes, enigmatic as those of an Egyptian god, revealed the formidable intellect housed beneath that wild thatch of blackish-green hair.

Summer had arrived in full force, and it was miserably hot. Of course, the Forensics Department’s rickety air conditioning system had perversely decided to give up the ghost, and maintenance was taking their sweet time with repairs. The wretched Othello had resorted to sprawling out on the cool benchtop in his lab but only obtained momentary relief. He’d finally called it quits, leaving the office early that evening to dip his feet in the fountain a bit behind his work building. Truth be told, he was also hoping to take his mind off a certain crimson reaper.

Grelle Sutcliff.

She was an outlier, an algorithm he couldn’t quite solve, an errant string of code that refused to be fully deciphered.

Grelle Sutcliff.

A glorious, terrifying mess of contradictions. Brazen laugh and gaudy attire that (almost) masked the pain flickering in the depths of her eyes like a lonely, dying flame. A fearsome warrior who flirted with demons and recklessly smashed through windows, yet had meekly let William T. Spears drag her away by the hair to be punished after the infamous Jack the Ripper fiasco. A Force, best studied from a safe distance, that inexorably drew you in through sheer magnetism.

Grelle Sutcliff.

A beautiful woman subjected to scorn and mockery, cursed with a physique that clashed with her innermost soul.

Grelle Sutcliff.

How illogical of him to desire her. Othello was just a scrawny geek with an “uncool” death scythe (not altered a whit since his training days) and no fashion sense whatsoever, a weakling constantly in need of protection (the scientist still cringed when he remembered how he’d cowered behind Grelle at the Phantomhive manor), a p-value that failed to reach significance. It was tortuously difficult to not feel small and inconsequential next to someone so exuberant and _alive_, though he did his best to hide this lack of confidence with a sassy attitude. Grelle seemed to like it when he stood up to her, and that made Othello feel the same excited little _zing_ as when one of his outlandish experiments actually worked.

Wait. Were those footsteps rustling the grass behind him?

“Theeeeere you are!” a shrill voice (carefully pitched to sound as feminine as possible) rang out in the night.

“Waaah!” shrieked the startled Othello, who only avoided toppling headfirst into the fountain by a very slim margin.

“Really,” the voice huffed indignantly, “that’s no way to greet a lady.” There was a full moon out, and, as the approaching figure drew nearer, Othello could make out a scarlet coat worn off the shoulders, sharp, white teeth, and astoundingly red hair.

“Gr-Grelle,” he squeaked, so flummoxed that he was almost rendered speechless.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, nerd,” she scolded, reaching down to remove her signature high heels. Holding the shoes in one manicured hand, she daintily stepped up to the fountain before flinging herself down next to him, playfully kicking her feet in the water.

“Me?” he asked stupidly, unable to process the statement. Why on earth would she seek _him_ out? Did Collections require his expertise again so soon after the conclusion of the Phantomhive affair?

She leaned in closer, her eyes glowing like a cat’s in the moonlight.

“You sent me those roses, didn’t you?”

Othello’s jaw dropped. “I…I…” he stammered helplessly.

After that whole business with White Fox, the ailuorphilic demon, and the Queen’s Watchdog had been wrapped up, Othello couldn’t help but feel a touch of despondency. There was no longer any reason for him to foray into the field with Grelle, and the geek was left to sit glumly amidst his beakers and microscopes. He’d enjoyed solitude before, but Othello now caught himself sighing wistfully, daydreaming about that wicked grin and pretty hair. On impulse, he’d ordered a bouquet of red roses for Miss Sutcliff, furtively sneaking into the Collections office complex at ungodly hours of the morning in order to leave it at her desk undetected. Fearful of rejection, Othello didn’t include his name or any contact information, merely slipping in a plain white card saying, “To Grelle Sutcliff, lady.” Besides, knowing her penchant for the romantic, he’d reasoned that Grelle would much rather receive flowers from a secret admirer than a Forensics lab rat.

“I thought so!” she crowed, gleefully pulling out the small card from one of her coat pockets.

“But how…?”

“There are very few people who call me a lady and actually mean it, Othello,” she interrupted, her expression now grave, a touch of sadness in her voice. “So, when someone does, it’s significant. I—take—notice.” As Grelle said the last three words, she gently brushed Othello’s cheeks with the flat side of the card. Othello gawped. She’d liked the roses. They’d MEANT something to her!

Grelle grabbed Othello by his lapels. “Especially when that someone is exceptionally cute,” she purred, pressing her lips to his. Happily bewildered, Othello wrapped his arms around her supple waist as he was immersed in _red_. He hadn’t kissed anyone for centuries, but he returned Grelle’s overtures as best he could. Judging from her enthusiastic response, he must be doing something right.

Glasses askew, Othello whispered shakily, “You’re…significant to me, as well.” Glancing down sheepishly, he added, “I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

A red-nailed hand tilted his chin upwards, forcing him to look into Grelle’s bewitching eyes. “I’ll have you,” she said, smiling kindly. Grelle pulled Othello into her lap, making his heart race in astonishment. His logical mind couldn’t fathom the mystery that was Grelle Sutcliff, but he surrendered completely to her crimson irrationality. As their mouths met in the secluded darkness, it somehow made more sense than anything else in the world.


End file.
